The wisewoman grimaced at the sight of the gore-covered little thing. It was bald like an egg, and her black shifty eyes seemed to have figured out the meaning of existence.
“A perky one,” she said, handing the babe to the tightlipped father.
The mother studied the babe, and then smirked at the father. No words passed between the couple, but the silence spoke in wisewoman’s head: You’ve spawned another of your kind, witch; there are seven of you now, and only one of me.
The wisewoman didn’t like the look on the father’s face. There was a shine in his eyes that could have been the dawning of tears, but his kind didn’t cry much—it was probably dammed viciousness. She stood in front of the trio, and extended her arms for the babe. “I’ll wash her off for ye,” she said.
The witch’s spawn snarled at the wisewoman, and let out a howl.
The father snatched the little beast, faced the full moon that beamed through the window, and accompanied his blood in a midnight Spring Equinox howl.
Moonchild, the wisewoman thought as she left the room.